


black smoke

by arisirie



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe, Based on 'The Marriage of Ereshkigal and Nergal', Cemetery, Dark Comedy, Edelgard is a funeral director and Felix is a police officer, Explicit Language, F/M, I swear I'll fix any mistakes as I spot them, Murder Mystery, POV Alternating, Rated For Violence, Slow Burn, Unbeta’d because if I looked at this any longer I was probably just going to delete it, Will add more tags as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-23 17:59:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19706575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arisirie/pseuds/arisirie
Summary: She eyed him with an unreadable expression. "Many come but few can leave. You are one of the lucky then, to have a choice."So why, she wanted to ask,why won’t you go?As if sensing her question, he smirked. "Does it matter? In the end, I’m still a dead man walking."The dead tell no tales, but if you look close enough, they have the most fascinating stories.Edelgard knows this better than most. Being surrounded by death for most of her life, she isn’t a stranger to her own mortality. To live is to die, to take your first breath until you take your last. There is a limit on the living, and all will eventually go back to the earth.So when she gets caught balancing the fine line between life and death, Felix is tasked to catch the culprit as fast as he can, else she spends her final moments shaping a coffin for herself.But it's easier said than done, and as the case draws out, survival heightens out of fear, hope, and perhaps even fatal attraction.





	1. Samsāra

**Author's Note:**

> i've thought about doing this for far too long, so with some encouragement, i've decided to finally post this! thank you to the kind friends that told me to go for it
> 
> i’m not sure how this is going to be received, but thank you for giving it a chance. the plot's 90% mapped out since this is a rewrite of an old story, so it’s just a matter of me making a few adjustments and putting it on paper. though updates will be sporadic—i don’t really have a set schedule for when i can work on this—it’s a safe bet that they won’t take too long (i hope)
> 
> as said in the tags, this is inspired by the myth 'the marriage of ereshkigal and nergal.' loosely, at this point, because i made quite a lot of deviations from the source material when editing this, but if you find some similarities then that's the reason why. there isn't going to be any sexual content though, if anyone's curious
> 
> this is rated m for **coarse language** , **black humour** , **character death** , and **graphic depictions of violence/gore**. if at any point the story makes you uncomfortable, please feel free to stop reading and click out!
> 
> enjoy!

**5:00 a.m. July 5. Hresvelg’s Main Office.**

As Edelgard blinked her eyes open, staring at the ceiling with an alarm ringing in her ears, she only had one satisfying thought:

The corpse in the next room over didn’t smell.

Perfect. The embalming must have been a success. That meant the wake would be right on schedule. All that was left was to let Dorothea dress the woman up in her finest silk, watch her family cry over her open casket, bury her six feet under, and promptly forget about her existence.

Rising from the couch, she turned off the clock. While the darkness was silent, the sunlight slipped through the blinds and coated the floor with a soft glow. It wasn’t enough to see the details of her paperwork, but it did remind her that she wasted two hours sleeping when she could have gotten some work done.

Such were the imperfections of the human body. To rest, to eat. To drink, bathe, _breathe_. Being as alive as she could possibly be was, in some ways, inconvenient.

Alas, being dead was even worse. And so it was up to her and her eating, breathing self to do what the dead couldn’t.

Which was everything.

Straightening her outfit with a single stroke—the usual black dress that made her fit right in the funeral home—she grabbed the stack of papers and exited the office, ready to start another day of piling bodies into the morgue.

* * *

**1:13 p.m. The Courtyard.**

As the only cemetery in the city, it wasn't surprising that they were always swamped with work. What surprised her more was the amount of deaths that could happen in a single day.

Heeled boots clicking across the corridor, they paused when gloved hands hovered over her clipboard. She addressed her shadow. "Fourteen wakes? Did it not occur to you that there are only so many hours in one afternoon, Hubert?"

"Indeed it did, my lady." When she began to walk again, Hubert followed her footsteps, neither falling beside her or straying behind. "But six of the families want it short. Cut and dry formalities, if you will."

Hm. "It's still far too hectic. Unless they’d prefer to have one massive ceremony all together, find out which ones are willing to have it in the morning. If that doesn’t work, tell them to reschedule. We'll start planning from there."

Hubert bowed. "As you wish. I'll find out by evening."

"Please do." She checked her watch. It was already a quarter after one, yet there was still so much to do. Though the foyer was all cleaned up and she’d begun to sort the offerings of the newly deceased, there were still bodies that needed to be casketed, graves to be cleaned...

And now, fourteen new cases to be judged.

She flipped to the first one.

It was a profile of a nurse. "One of three sisters," she mumbled. "Has a son who is willing to provide an upkeep of—" She blinked at the cheque. "—ten dollars a month." A bit cheap, but rather standard for the middle class.

She made a note to place her in her late husband's lot. _'Northwest, by L351, under one of the pine trees. Look for the name Dawson.'_

The next was a handyman. Childless. His remaining family branched off to a distant cousin. No deposits. No down payments. She pursed her lips and wrote down _'Put his ashes in the garbage.'_

She managed to get through half of the cases before she heard the distant chiming of the bell tower. The sign of a visitor.

Her eyebrows furrowed. This was rare. The only people that ever bothered to come close to the cemetery where the ones that dropped off their new residents—and they were welcome to come and go as they pleased. Few would even consider making the six hour drive from the city proper to the graveyard.

"It's much too far," families would always tell her, despite the tears on their faces as coffins were lowered into the ground. "Maybe we'll come during anniversaries."

Most never did.

Turning around, she headed for the gates. A second ring echoed soon after. Then a third. Fourth.

Seventh.

But she made no motion to hurry, even when the remnants of the last faded away. For one, the walk from the courtyard to the entrance was quite the distance. Even the fastest, reasonable speed she could make would take her a while.

Then, there was the fact that they didn’t bother to call her beforehand. If they were careless enough to do that, cutting into her hectic schedule, they could use some time to contemplate their mistake.

Finally, and perhaps this was the most important, if there was anything she’d learned from previous visitors, it was that they always had trouble finding the parking lot.

So the sight of a limousine waiting by the gates surprised her. Then not, because she realized there was only one person in the entire city who would send such a fancy envoy. Then dread settled, because Edelgard would rather forget the last time they were here.

"Hello," she greeted, cautious but civil. The man bowed, low, in respect. "This is rather unexpected. I suppose the mayor has something to say?"

"She isn’t here herself—" Relief spread. "—but yes, she has something to give you." Pulling out a manila folder, he said, "For you, Miss Hresvelg."

She stared at the mayor’s handwriting, the words written elegantly with care, and was a bit impressed that she hadn’t been forgotten. "While I appreciate the time you took to come here, was it necessary to travel all this way? Hresvelg may not be the pinnacle of technology, but we’re not obsolete. We do have a fax machine."

"I’m well aware. But Mayor Rhea said to personally see to it that this got to your hands."

Oh? This must be important then. She hid it behind all her papers. "That’s a rather long drive for an awfully short visit," she hummed. "Feel free to stay a while, if you wish. We have some tea in the kitchens."

He shook his head. "Thank you for the offer, but I will return to the city now."

A polite smile flitted on her lips. "If you say so." Then, as amicably as she could: "Well, as lovely as this has all been, I’m afraid I have much work piled up in my hands…"

He got the hint. "I'll take my leave." He bowed again. "Until next time, Miss Hresvelg."

If he—whatever his name was—made one visit every thirty-some years, there was a chance that the next time would be his last.

So she said, "Quite. Send my regards to the mayor."

* * *

**6:46 p.m. The Dining Room.**

By sunset, her to-do list was a little under halfway complete. The gardeners had helped her prune the weeds, mow the grass, and polish the graves. There was still more to do, but it was progress. And to the cemetery, as slow as it was, progress was the most welcome change.

Chewing tonight’s meal, she allowed herself to have a moment’s reprieve, letting her feet rest and her back relax. Dinner, on the other hand, was less than wanted. She’d been eating tomato soup for weeks now, and though she couldn’t fault the cooks—the garden had been teeming with tomatoes these days—she’d grown tired of it. Bernadetta’s cooking was good, but she couldn’t help but think of it as a chore.

To keep the flavour out of her thoughts, she filled them up with work. As she flipped through her clipboard, idly stabbing at the bowl, she noticed the manila folder, its letters looping in a script that bled from one side to another.

She placed her spoon down. Right. She should probably look at that. A part of her wanted to leave it alone, but she knew she’d have to look at it eventually. Better now that later, she supposed. She could throw it in the trash if she didn’t like it.

Opening the folder, she first found a letter.

_ To Edelgard von Hresvelg, _

_ It has been a while since our correspondence. I hear the cemetery is running smoothly under your control, and I am content that its current keeper has been handling the workload well. _

_ I will be hosting a party on the 26th of this month, in celebration for Fódlan’s 150th birthday. Though I realize your work must be keeping you busy, we would be glad to have you there. As an important figure in our city, you are always welcome to any festivities. _

_ Attached is a clipping that I believe you’d appreciate. Do forgive Seteth for his curtness; sometimes, he’s much too straightforward for his own good. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Mayor Rhea _

Curt and impersonal, much like the woman herself. Or, how Edelgard remembered her to be like. It was a bit comforting, that semblance of familiarity, even if it was from someone she’d prefer to never see again. That despite all that had passed, everything was the same as usual.

But that was all it was: courtesy. She made a note to send the mayor a message later and decline her invitation. She didn’t have time to go to events like these, when the cemetery was filled to the brim with work. Rhea would understand; after all, she mentioned it herself—the cemetery was far too busy to take a reprieve from.

Putting the letter away, she looked at the rest of the envelope’s contents. As her eyes caught a glimpse of it, they hardened. Her mouth twisted into a scowl. Fingers trembling, the folder creased under her grip until she took a deep breath and relaxed her hold.

Was this necessary? What’s done was done; the past would never change regardless of its consequences. What did it matter if she knew what it amounted to? And for what? Karmic justice? A grim sense of fulfillment? Another reminder that it still hurt no matter how many years had gone by?

Her stomach churned, and the food seemed more unappealing than it already was.

Then she took another deep breath, loosening her balled up fists and her rigid shoulders.

Calm down, she told herself. The mantra repeated in her head—she could throw it in the trash if she didn’t like it. Pretend it never existed. Move on with her life. Continue to do what she’s always done.

But before she could do anything, she heard someone clear their throat behind her. Turning around, she spotted Hubert by the doorframe.

"Apologies for disturbing you, my lady," he said, "but I have an update on your earlier request."

She reminded herself to breathe. "And? What did they say?"

He gave her a note, detailing who wanted what. With a quick glance, she read that three of them would be in the morning, five in the afternoon, two in a double ceremony, and the rest would be done on a different day.

Much more manageable than before.

After writing down some instructions, she gave it back to Hubert. "Take this to Ferdinand. He would like to know we'll need ten new graves in five days’ time."

And probably yell at her, incredulous, because "Excuse me? Gravedigging and gravestone carving are an _art_! I refuse to do a sloppy job that’s far under the full extent of my abilities, and if you expect me to do just that, _I will kill you with my own two hands and make sure your funeral is the worst in history_." He’ll still finish it in time with the finesse of an expert artisan though, all the while ranting about this and that and whatever he has to say that day.

"Of course, my lady." He bowed. "Then, I will leave you to your meal."

But she saw the glance he took to her papers. Though there was nothing to see—after all, she wasn’t able to take everything out—she knew he knew. His expression, blank, moved from the table to her own. If she didn’t know him as well as she did, she would’ve thought him impassive.

Yet there it was, worry in his eyes before he hid it with a practiced stoicism.

Despite her suppressed anger, her mind whirled in realization. The mayor—ah, she was a cunning woman. The invitation was a ruse, wasn’t it? It wasn’t that she particularly wanted Edelgard to be there, but because she wanted to trap her in a conversation she wouldn’t be able to avoid.

Normally, she’d wave it off. And Hubert, for all his forbearing patience, would know better than to ask. Her business was her own. Even if he had an inkling of what it was, he would keep his mouth shut.

Which, when she thought about it, was perfect.

Maybe this was petty. She didn’t quite care.

"Actually, Hubert, another moment. I have a favour to ask of you." She riffled through her clipboard and gave him the letter. "The mayor is hosting a party I cannot go to. You will be my representative."

A small frown set on his face. Surprise, Edelgard read.

"Me?" He placed a hand on his chest. "My lady, as much as I’d be honoured to, I have my own duties to consider."

_I won’t leave you here alone_ , was what he meant.

"I’ll see to it that they’re done," she insisted, "and I’ll ask Petra to accompany me during the day."

"But—"

"Hubert."

He shut his mouth, then clenched his hand and looked down, as if to ask for forgiveness. "…Apologies, my lady. My decision was rash."

"A knee-jerk reaction, indeed. But I won’t fault it against you. I told you rather suddenly, after all." And to be fair, she would have done the same. Glancing at the folder, she noticed his eyes following hers, and snapped back to catch his reaction. He looked almost distressed. She smiled, rueful. "I will be fine," she said, soft yet final, like there was no room for argument. "And you will go to the party in my stead."

He pursed his lips, searching her face for answers. Whether he found them or not, she didn’t know. "Of course," he conceded after a moment. "As you say."

"Wonderful. I trust that you’ll make the preparations yourself." Of course, she wouldn’t tell Rhea about their new arrangements. Let her be surprised when the day came. "Do act in a manner appropriate of Hresvelg, yes?"

"I wouldn’t dare do anything else."

And though his lips were pursed and his forehead creased and the signs all but said he was displeased, he bowed respectfully before stalking out of the room. Abrupt, like he couldn’t stand being near her any longer. Even though she knew that wasn’t the case, her gut still shifted in a way that would make the dead turn in their graves.

Staring at her food, soup cold and unappetizing, she wondered what tonight’s dessert was.

* * *

**12:53 a.m. July 6. The Main Office.**

As the fifth yawn of the hour ripped from her mouth, she knew she was at her limit.

It was a bit off-putting, if she had to be honest, because she was able to stay awake until three yesterday. Losing sunlight—or moonlight, in this case—just because she had to rest miffed her.

It was true though; she was tired. Perhaps it was because today was busier than normal. Perhaps it was because she’d been sleeping little for the last few days. Perhaps it was because her agitation stayed with her until late into the night. She’d wasted too much time on something that shouldn’t have mattered. Especially since, after thinking for far longer than she wanted to, she decided not to look at it.

Yet the envelope still sat at the corner of the table, waiting and waiting and waiting.

She needed to sleep. Needed to take her mind off of it. She needed to _forget_.

But she couldn’t.

And it frustrated her that even just the idea of it could send her thoughts spiralling into chaos.

Text blurring under her tired eyes, she put the papers aside, changed out of her clothes, and fell into the makeshift bed on her couch.

She hoped the night would be dreamless.

* * *

**5:00 a.m. The Main Office.**

Like clockwork, the alarm rang, she stared at her ceiling, and sunlight slipped through the blinds.

Life, death, work.

Again, the cycle would continue.

Perhaps, she thought, it would be better if she was dead.


	2. Antisocial Personality Disorder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more week until release! here’s another chapter as a humble offering to the fandom. quick disclaimer that i don’t know how police work…well, works so i could’ve gotten stuff wrong haha;;
> 
> enjoy!
> 
>  **trigger warning** : a big chunk of the chapter deals with a suicide. stay safe, y'all

**2:05 a.m. July 18. East Gideon Boardwalk.**

It was a suicide, presumably. That’s what the witness thought it was. The account: "someone fell in front of me, everything went everywhere, and I vomited in a trashcan." Felix didn’t know if it was because they’d seen the goriest thing in their life, they were drunk and just came back from a bar, or both.

In any case, it sobered them up enough to call emergency services.

The crime scene cleaners had begun disinfecting the whole stretch, scraping off brain matter from the sidewalk and collecting bone fragments that fell onto the road. The blood had to be the worst part though; they would have to scrub, rinse, and disinfect all the nearby cars, a fire hydrant, a streetlamp, _plus_ the wall from the fifth story and below. 

He had to hand it to them—literally. He was glad he didn’t have to look for dismembered fingers on other people’s balconies.

But it wasn’t like police work was any better, because he had to work on this bloody mess at the wee hours of two in the morning.

"I can’t believe it. This can’t be real." The victim’s wife, clearly distraught, could only cry on his partner’s shoulder. The amount of tears and snot dripping on Ingrid was no short of glorious. She sent Felix a look ('don’t you dare say a word’ she all but screamed), who just rolled his eyes and continued inspecting the room.

"Ma’am, I’m sorry for your loss," Ingrid said. Empathy wasn’t her strong point, but she did her best. It was better than anything he could do, anyway. "This must be a difficult time for you."

Felix noticed a piece of paper by the patio windows.

"I didn’t notice he got out of bed! But if he did, I wouldn’t have thought anything of it. He sometimes gets out of bed to grab a glass of water, or—or to read in front of the TV, and I would’ve thought tonight was one of those nights—"

He picked it up.

"—When I woke up to someone screaming, I thought something happened outside and I rushed out of the room and when I saw the window was open I thought someone had broken in but—oh gods, I didn’t think—"

He read.

"Deep breaths, ma’am. Breathe."

His eyebrow rose.

"He never told me anything! He always looked so happy! I don’t understand why he would do this!"

He spoke up. " _'My life has no meaning. It hurts to keep going. Goodbye.'_ " Looking at the others, he waved the note around. "That’s what this says. Guess he thought it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows."

The woman sobbed harder.

_Felix_ , Ingrid mouthed with a wide-eyed scowl.

He stared back, impassive. What? It was the truth. And if anything, it was evidence that would help them figure out if there was foul play involved. If the victim’s handwriting matched the one in the letter, then that meant his wife was telling the truth. Who knows; maybe this was all a ruse to get insurance money.

"I’m going to need a copy of something your husband wrote," he said, studying the words until it imprinted on his brain, "so I can confirm this was from him."

"There…there are probably some memos in his bag? It’s over there by the door."

"Grand."

"He always liked making lists and planned for everything," she choked out, "but what am I going to do? Was leaving me part of his plan? Didn’t I matter to him?"

"Life is always a series of unexpected events, ma’am. All we can do now is make a plan moving forward…"

Leaving Ingrid to handle her, he went through the victim’s things. There, just as said, was a planner. He flipped through it, comparing the letters in the note to the ones in the notebook. Scratchy 'y’s? Thin 'm’s? The weird kind of 'a' that looked like the side profile of someone with a pompadour? Yep, yep, yep. Looked about right.

Unless she forged this all in the fifteen minutes it took from the first responder to pick up the call to when the police arrived. Which was unlikely. When she said this guy was organized, she meant _organized_.

Section dividers, colour coding… He even used white out to fix his mistakes. And it spanned from the start of January until just yesterday—

He paused. …Oh?

He flipped through the other pages. _Oh?_

This certainly made everything easier.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the woman had calmed down. She was still crying, yeah, but it was quieter than before. Like everything was sinking in. He stood up to face them again.

Ingrid rubbed circles on her back as she looked at Felix. "Did you find anything, Officer Fraldarius?" she asked.

"Yeah. Seems like he’d been planning this for a while now." He cleared his throat. "His first entry was on April 24. It says _'No one understands me. Why can’t they see it hurts?'_ "

He continued flipping. "Then in June, he started thinking about killing himself. Went through a bunch of options. Guns, pills, bleeding out in the bathtub, the whole jazz. He decided on jumping at the end of the month."

The woman listened, mouth agape.

"The rest of the entries are about him ironing out the details. Jumping from the roof of his office is a bad idea because his only major break is lunchtime and if someone realizes where he’s going then—"

" _Thank you_. Those are very astute observations that will surely be important at the _right_ place and the _right_ time." Ingrid forced a smile on her face. "Ma’am, what he means is that even though your husband will sorely be missed, the Goddess will take good care of him now."

She stared at them dumbly.

"Ma’am? Ma’am, are you listening?" When she didn’t respond, Ingrid glared at him. "If she got a heart attack, you’re doing the paperwork."

He wrinkled his nose. "Gods no. I'd rather die."

* * *

**6:13 a.m. Fódlan Police Station, Faerghus Branch.**

To Felix’s relief, it wasn’t a heart attack. She just went into shock.

After they came back to the station, Ingrid filed a report of what happened—grumbling all the while as she ruled the case a suicide—and they spent the rest of their shift munching on some snacks that a fellow officer brought. The salsa dip reminded Felix of what he saw on-site, except it was much tastier than brain chunks. Probably. He didn’t know what brains tasted like.

In any case, it wasn’t until six in the morning that he was back wearing civilian clothing, suppressing a yawn and in dire need of a nap. Sometimes, he wished his apartment was across the station; walking two blocks to get home when you were tired was one of the worst feelings in the world.

As he started to walk down the street, it took him a minute to notice that Ingrid was walking beside him. He stopped in his tracks. She glanced at him and stopped too.

He walked.

She walked.

"…What are you doing?" he asked.

"We need to talk," she answered.

Oh.

Okay.

Those were never good words to hear, especially from Ingrid. He racked his brain for everything that happened recently—the stapler he broke despite her saying to be careful with it, the piece of steak he stole from her lunch that he thought she wouldn’t notice, the coffee he spilt over her documents—

She took a sharp breath. "Dimitri told me you weren’t responding to his texts."

Fuck. Not that one.

"No," he said. "This conversation is over."

"He says that—"

"No."

"Can you—"

"No."

"You’re not even—"

"No."

"Felix," she hissed. "Let me speak."

He paused. He didn’t like the fact that he paused. Ingrid was good at that—that commanding voice that made him stop and think and second guess and doubt and wonder what he was even doing with his life.

He grumbled. "You can talk all you want, but I’m not listening."

"You can’t avoid this forever." Arms crossed, her stare was hard. "The more you wait, the harder it’ll bite back when you finally deal with him."

"Who said I was going to deal with him in the first place?"

"I did." He looked like he swallowed something sour. She rolled her eyes. "Knock it off. You know I’m serious."

Oh he knew. He knew she was serious. It wasn’t incredulity on his face, it was dread. "Okay, first of all, this entire mess isn’t my fault so I don’t see why _I_ have to apologize—"

"I beg to differ," she muttered under her breath.

"—Secondly, I didn’t ignore Dimitri. I literally sent him a text back—"

"Typing 'lol' doesn’t count as a proper response."

"—Thirdly, I’m not going to waste my holiday going to a party—"

"You’ll waste the day away whether you go or not."

"—And lastly, it’s a goddessdamned _black tie event_ so even if I _did_ want to go—and I don’t, let me get that into your skull—I don’t have any formal shit to wear."

She stared at him. "That," she said, "can be easily remedied."

He stared back. Then he rubbed the bridge of his nose. Why was everyone making him do things he didn’t want to do? "Leave me alone. I can handle this by myself."

"We let you handle this by yourself for years. Nothing’s changed."

"It takes time, okay?"

"Felix." This time, she sounded weary. "Work with us here. This is the best opportunity you’ll get for a long time."

He could see his apartment around the bend. A bit more and he could get away from this. Shut himself from the world and stay alone. In the corner of his room, he could pretend his problems didn’t exist. He could pretend _he_ didn’t exist.

"There’s no point," he told her. "Whatever I do, he won’t listen to me. Never did. Never will."

It left a bitter taste in his mouth. But he wasn’t wrong. The grim look on Ingrid’s face said she knew as much.

He scanned his key card in silence, not caring anymore that she followed him into the lobby. They rode the elevator, quiet, and he eyed the numbers get higher and higher and higher. He remembered there was nothing in his fridge.

"For what it’s worth," she said once they got to his floor, "I wouldn’t push this if I knew it wouldn’t work."

He stayed quiet, keys jiggling into the lock as he wondered what kind of take-out he should order.

She tried again. "And Dimitri would at least be happy to see you again."

Maybe something Duscur. "Okay," he said.

Then he closed the door on her face.

* * *

**12:05 p.m. Felix’s Apartment.**

When he woke up at noon, he had a headache—the kind he got when he slept too much or slept too little. He didn’t know which one it was and he didn’t bother wanting to know. As he stumbled out of his bed, all he cared about was getting a drink. Preferably alcohol, but he supposed he’d settle for water.

Eyeing the phone on the kitchen table, he had a feeling it was full of unseen messages. If he knew Ingrid, and he was almost ashamed to admit he knew her well, she’d never leave him alone until he said yes.

It was stupid, really. The false choice crap. Why bother giving him a decision if she wouldn’t take no for an answer?

Why couldn’t Dimitri shut up?

Why did they have to keep pressing?

Why couldn’t they leave him _alone_?

With a frustrated growl, he scratched his hair and threw his mug in the sink. Not enough to break it—the mess would be a pain to clean—but the resounding clack was satisfying to hear. Like he put in just enough effort to pressure it without shattering.

Just enough to stay alive.

He forced his hands to splay on the counter, listening to the hum of the fridge. Low. The water dripping from the sink. Steady. The ticking of the clock. Rhythmic. It was undeniably boring and his breathing evened out, his shoulders relaxed, and the wildness in his glass reflection winded down to a halt.

Life moving along as usual. Tiresome. Like a party where everyone but him was having fun.

He wanted to sleep. He wanted to stay sleeping—today, tomorrow, forevermore. But instead, he sighed as his stomach growled, and he grabbed his phone to make a delivery.

Screw the people. Screw the event. Screw social propriety and ridiculous formalities and pasts that never seemed to lose sight of him no matter how far away he tried to run.

The only saving grace was that the food wasn’t half bad.

* * *

**5:28 a.m. July 19. Fódlan Police Station, Faerghus Branch.**

When he clocked in the next morning, the first thing he noticed was the stray officers around the work bulletin. It wasn’t a rare sight—some liked to chat and drink coffee there. At this time though, thirty minutes early for the next shift, there was bound to be barely anyone around.

Just how he liked it.

Dumping his things on the desk, he sat down and waited for the inevitable. Not a stabbing in front of a convenience store, or searching for illegal drugs at a stupid teenager’s party, or filing parking tickets into the registry, but _Ingrid_.

Being her partner unfortunately meant being stuck to her like superglue. And Ingrid being Ingrid meant he had to deal with whatever complaints she had in store today.

Gods, he hoped not. It was too early to deal with that kind of bullshit. Maybe he’d be more up for it at noon. Or five in the afternoon. Or never. Hopefully never.

That last one was dashed when he saw her walking into the station.

"Good morning, Felix." She gave him a cup of coffee—black, like usual—as her lips pursed. "You look terrible. Did you get any sleep last night?"

What was the point? If he told her he slept the entire night away, she wouldn’t believe him. So he shrugged, chugging the drink in big gulps as he said, "I got enough."

She sighed but remained quiet, sorting through the papers on her own desk. It wasn’t a secret that Ingrid handled the paperwork between them, all the while looking about as grave as someone who knew they were about to be operated by a rookie doctor. So when she frowned, Felix thought nothing of it. But when she hurried to the bulletin, back unnaturally straight, he sat a little taller.

Scanning the board, her eyebrows knitted closer and closer until they froze, unravelled, and she let out a short laugh.

That wasn’t a good sign.

"Felix," she called. "Come look at this."

No, he wanted to say.

"What is it?" he told her.

"I think you have to see it for yourself."

He didn’t want to. That was the whole point. That was why he asked her to tell him in the comfort of his seat, ten feet away from her impressed expression and nowhere near the bulletin. He didn’t want to _know_.

But like always, he didn’t have a choice, did he?

Pushing his chair back, he stood beside her, eyes trailing from the end of her finger to one of the pinned memos. As the words registered in his head, he scowled, rubbed his face with both hands, and wished he was somewhere else.

"You’ve got to be shitting me," he muttered.

There, written on the middle of the page, under 'Guards for Fódlan's 150th Celebration' was the name Felix Hugo Fraldarius.

And on the bottom, signed in bold ink, was the name of the chief of police.

Fuck.

He was going to kill Dimitri.


End file.
